


Under the Eddian Tree

by lategoodbye



Category: Anthem (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Game, Pre-Slash, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 05:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: After the Heart of Rage is silenced, Owen and the Freelancer talk.





	Under the Eddian Tree

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure that one of the coming Acts will have us meet Owen again but until then I need some kind of reconciliation between the Freelancer and him.

The silhouette against the ragged cliffsides that frame the Eddian Grove is a familiar one, and he only realises that he’s been waiting for it to appear when he catches the glint of its metal plates one early afternoon not a few weeks after his victorious return from the now silenced Heart of Rage.

“Wait”, Faye shares over their telepathic connection, “Is that…”

He sighs, but the mournful sound is swallowed by the buzzing of his javelin’s thrusters as he sets down gently in the solid crown of one of the trees that stand crowded and meek in the shadow of its enormous ancestor, the big Eddian tree.

“Yeah”, he replies, his voice calm and neutral. The other javelin, an intimidating-looking Colossus in a design so ancient that it only exists once, changes its course and draws nearer in a crooked arc. The howl of its thrusters becomes deafening, and he tenses in anticipation. The servos of his own javelin hum as the suit reacts to his unease. The Colossus is in firing range now, and he’s without cover, his weapons secured, and his suit’s abilities powered down – nowhere near ready to counter a direct attack.

But he’d like to believe that he won’t have to.

“Should I contact—”

“No!” He can’t help it, the urgency, the hint of desperation that makes him sound so out of breath. Some things even betrayal won’t change. “Why don’t you take a break?”

They both watch – Faye through their cypher bond – as the heavy Colossus reverses its thrust and makes an abrupt landing a few metres away. The impact sends tremors through the tree’s crown but the many thick branches – covered with layers of soil, grass, even other, smaller trees that make the Eddian resemble a pleasantly sloping hill – carry their combined weight easily.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”, she cautions.

“Faye, please”, he snaps but he regrets his outburst as soon as the words have left his mouth. His temper has cost him so much already. “Faye, I’m sorry…”, but by then their connection has already gone silent.

“Oh dear, friendship troubles?”

“Owen”, speaking his name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

The Colossus raises its massive hands, the gesture so familiar that it tugs at something deep in his chest.

“I suppose, I have you to thank for the lack of welcoming committee.” Owen turns his helmeted head this way and that even though he doesn’t have to. Being his own cypher, it means that he can sense people coming from miles away. But the Eddian Grove is silent now, save for a few birds that are hesitant to pick up where they were interrupted in their singing.

“Corvus and the Sentinels have nothing to do with this.” It’s what most people, and that includes Faye and Haluk, don’t understand. To them Owen is nothing but a traitor. This they let him know with tiresome frequency. But none of them have felt the sting of betrayal as strongly he has, and its effects on him linger like embers long after the fire has turned to ashes. While they can afford to hate him with single-minded fervour, it is he that bears the pain of being cast aside. It’s a wound so grievous that it heals far slower than he’s hoped. So what if he hasn’t told Tassyn all the details? What if he’s glossed over the exact appearance of the Javelin of Dawn? Owen’s no longer part of the bigger picture so what does it matter to them?

“Yeah, well. They’d probably beg to differ. But thank you, that certainly makes things easier”, Owen says, not exactly distant but lacking much of the warmth the Freelancer’s so accustomed to.

The Colossus’ heavy plating shifts in mid-movement. Its pilot won’t keep still, so neither does the javelin. It’s a strange sight, on a javelin this fabled, and it reminds him yet again of how Owen’s come to acquire it.

He’s thought about it often – of how different things could be, had Owen not decided to take matters into his own hands. But with the Monitor defeated and the Heart of Rage silenced it’s becoming difficult to imagine any other outcome. 

But that doesn’t mean all’s well that ends well.

“Why did you come here?”, he asks, and he’s glad for his javelin’s closed visor. His friend, former friend – truth is, he doesn’t know what they are to each other now – might be telepathically gifted but not even he can read his thoughts. Chances are he might not even want to understand his side of the story.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. 

Owen’s own suit of armour is impenetrable, the man inside out of reach, but when after a moment of silence he answers, his voice is surprisingly tender.

“The Eddian Tree.”

“What?”

Caution makes his own voice sound guarded and raw, but Owen doesn’t seem to mind.

“The Eddian Tree. Come on, you love this place.” He gestures toward the impossibly big tree stood in the centre of the grove, so tall that its branches reach beyond the invisible ripstream above, so all-encompassing that the ancient monument on which it’s grown has forever become a part of it. “I knew you’d come back here eventually.”

The Freelancer shakes his head.

“No, I mean, why—”

“Can’t I visit an old friend?”, he interrupts.

“Owen, we didn’t exactly part on friendly terms.”

“Believe me, I know”, he replies, but the distance between them makes it impossible to say whether the regret in his voice is nothing more than self-pity or a genuine attempt at making amends.

“There are better ways to contact me.”

The banter makes it easier to pick up where they’ve left off before their falling-out. Perhaps their back and forth is less forgiving than it used to be but it’s familiar ground – something they both can rely on.

“Oh, like what?”

“Like mail?”

He certainly hasn’t checked his messages daily since Owen has left, expecting something… _anything_ : an apology, an explanation, holiday greetings from Stralheim. Only of course he doesn’t say, hoping that Owen’s too absorbed in his ridiculous power fantasy to even guess at the depths of his distress.

“And you don’t think that’s routed through Corvus first?”, he replies instead, and perhaps that’s even worse because the cynicism’s what really stings. “Really, ask yourself why Tassyn likes you so much. You’re entirely too trusting.”

He counts the seconds it takes for the wave of fresh, hot anger in his stomach to subside. Lashing out at Owen is the last thing he wants to do right now, even if what he’s said is unkind (and hits far too close to home).

“This is ridiculous”, he decides and takes a leap of faith. The joints of his javelin lock up in its maintenance stance and the back-plating snaps open with a soft hiss. It takes some manoeuvring to pull his arms out of the suit and lean backward far enough so he can disembark in one fluent motion and land, feet first, on the soft ground underneath.

“What are you doing?” Still fully suited up, Owen recoils in alarm.

“Getting out of my javelin”, the Freelancer explains, all the while trying very hard not to roll his eyes at Owen’s overcautiousness. Really, what’s one unarmed man against the Javelin of Dawn itself? If anything, he should be the one on the defensive. “So?”, he adds.

“So…?” The Colossus’ servos whirr and whine to accommodate its indecisive pilot. “Oh, you want me to…”

In the shadow of his empty javelin the Freelancer shrugs his shoulders and squints up against the afternoon sun.

“If I’m as trusting as you say I am”, he exclaims with more confidence than he feels, “then you shouldn’t have anything to fear.”

“No tricks?”

“Owen, I’m not about pull a shock grenade out of thin air.” And wouldn’t _that_ be ironic. “I just want to see you.”

“Well, all right”, comes his reluctant reply. “But don’t think I didn’t warn you. I mean, I’m not… not quite the charming cypher you remember.”

And he wants so badly to reassure him.

“I think we’ve already established that”, is what he says, but there’s no weight behind the words. He’s past the resentment, past the disappointment, even past wanting things to return to what they were. All he wants is some form of closure, and he won’t find that in Sentinel reports or Corvus mission briefs.

As he watches, the Colossus’ mechanical limbs lock into place. He hears rather than sees how the heavy back-plating shifts open. A familiar pair of leather boots hits the ground with nimble grace, and it doesn’t surprise him at all to see that Owen hasn’t even changed out of his old clothes. The linen of his trousers is dusty at the knee, the cypher-grey of his tunic has worn away in some places revealing the rough leather underneath. There’s bruises on one elbow, angry red marks down the side of his right arm, and his face – oh, his face…

“Owen…”, he whispers, and he shakes his head, not sure if Owen can even see him do it or if his cypher senses help fill in the blanks. 

“Yeah, well”, his cloudy, reddened eyes meet his own only for an instant before he takes a few reluctant steps out of the shadow of his javelin. “At least it should give you some satisfaction, seeing me like this.”

The criss-crossing web of scars on his cheeks has healed as well as can be expected. The rest of him appears to be unhurt, even his hair has grown out some, but his eyebrows and lashes have gone and the vivid blue of his eyes has been swallowed almost completely by enlarged pupils hazy with corneal damage. 

“What are you taking about?” Dismay threatens to overwhelm his voice. “I never wanted—"

“Yeah, yeah”, Owen’s mouth curls into a humourless smile. “I think we can establish that if only I had listened to you none of this would’ve happened and I’d be safe and sound in Fort Tarsis right now cheering you on from the sideline. Brilliant!”

He’s restless now, clearly agitated. His arms swing back and forth; he bites his lip, then shakes his head as if he himself can’t quite believe it.

“But here’s the thing. I don’t regret what I did.” And he lifts one gloved finger, just in case he’s interrupted. “Would I do it all again? I don’t know. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. Can’t change the past, can we? Unless that Arcanist of yours can conjure up the right Shaper relic.”

“Actually, its three Arcanists now”, the Freelancer remarks. Confronted with all of this, what else is there to say?

“Oh my, you do certainly get around”, Owen replies with just a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“You don’t know one third of it.”

It’s a joke that Owen can’t possibly understand, and it shows in the way he tilts his head and wrinkles his nose. Much has changed in the fort since he’s left, and it must hurt, the knowledge that what Owen thought was a home worthy of sacrifice and protection now gets on just fine without him.

The Freelancer’s thought about it: his adamant claim that the Monitor was about to attack Fort Tarsis. It’s impossible to discern whether Owen’s erratic change of allegiance has truly managed to thwart his plan or if overrunning a backwater settlement was never part of it at all. What remains is Owen’s duplicity, and it’s something he can’t quite reason away.

“I miss you. Us,” Owen says, eventually. For once his expressive voice sounds small, almost timid. “We had a good thing going, you and I.” He extends one hand as if to reach out. “If things had been different. If you hadn’t reconnected with your old crew… Bah!” He lets his hand drop back to his side and his gaze wander. “This isn’t what I wanted. And it’s boring, you know, doing this whole lancer thing on my own. Last week I took down a Titan, and before that… an abandoned mine just teeming with Scars. Ah, you should have seen me…”, he sighs in obvious self-satisfaction. When he doesn’t receive a reply, his milky eyes flicker back to where the Freelancer regards him in silence.

“Wait, are you crying?”, and Owen’s voice cracks at that, just a little. 

The tears come as a surprise even to the Freelancer. He hasn’t even noticed the wetness on his cheeks until he wipes it away with shaking fingers. Astonishment turns into resolve as his fingernails bite into the palm of his hand.

“Of course I’m crying, you asshole!”, but again his anger burns out fast. “You were my best friend”, he pleads. “I—I…”

Owen’s by his side in an instant, close but never quite touching, and none of it compares to the familiarity they’ve shared before.

“Yeah, it all feels quite silly now.”

And he grimaces, quite aware of how little his words can affect the past. 

They stand like this for a while, trapped in their regrets and the paths they’ve chosen for each other. Maybe this has been a bad idea, the Freelancer thinks as the chill of the wind dries what’s left of his tears. After all, they’ve said their goodbyes before – once when Owen claimed the javelin of Dawn for himself and again when he saved Haluk’s life and, consequently, his own by sharing the design of General Tarsis’ Dawn Shield. Now all that’s left are echoes of the past and there doesn’t seem to be a way to reconcile.

He’s about to turn away, withdraw into his javelin and… then what? Give up once and for all?

Owen’s hand brushes over his shoulder and he can feel the warmth of his fingers seep through the fabric of his gloves. He shivers into the touch and lets his eyes wander over the changed landscape of Owen’s face. Beneath the redness and the remnants of dirt and ashes he can just about make out the faint old scar on his upper lip. It twitches as the corners of his mouth curl upwards into a hopeful invitation.

“Sit with me. Please, for old times’ sake.”

And he obliges, feels Owen’s hand on his skin long after he’s pulled it away to sit down on an uneven patch of grass that’s overgrown the Eddian’s thick leaves. The Freelancer follows suit, legs bent comfortably at the knees, one hand resting on the ground between them. They’re framed by their empty javelins. It’s as if they’re standing watch, the bulk of their metal protecting them from prying eyes.

“What now?”, he asks as he considers the big Eddian tree that towers above them like a living monument.

“You know, this is all I ever wanted.” Owen nods towards both of their suits. It’s easy to guess at what me means. They’re on equal footing, at least for now. It’s the past and future that’s out of sync and threatens to sour each moment anew. Owen feels it, too.

“Not like _this_ , obviously”, he’s quick to admit. “Just… you and I out here with our javelins enjoying the scenery…” The Freelancer watches as the longing in his faraway eyes hardens into determination. “And don’t tell me it would have happened eventually because I know that’s not true. Not with the way things are with the cyphers, with Haluk and Faye, with you, blah blah blah.”

He gives his shoulders a dismissive shrug and begins pulling at the short blades of grass surrounding his feet. Soon there’s a bunch of them, uprooted and half-crushed, scattering the slice of ground between them both, but still Owen seems lost.

“If I talk to Tassyn”, the Freelancer suggests, “then maybe—”

“You can’t honestly think they’d take me back… that I even _want_ to go back. I mean, would you go back to piloting striders after all of this?” He shakes his head and his gloved hands dig into the unyielding ground. “No, not me. I’m never going to sit down in an amplifier ever again. I can’t.”

The finality in his voice leaves no room for discussion, but the Freelancer can’t help but try again.

“Owen, I know you never wanted to be a cypher but…”

“No. This is my choice, don’t you understand?” And he looks at him with those wide, white eyes. “Mine. No one’s abandoned me this time.”

It’s the Freelancer who has to look away first.

“I never meant to—”

Owen leans sideways and lets their shoulders bump together in a familiar gesture of camaraderie. 

“I know you didn’t. Do you want to know why?”, he asks, never quite retreating, and so close now that the afternoon breeze doesn’t quite manage to cool the body heat caught between them. “Because you’re so bloody concerned about everything all the time. Even now you think that you probably should’ve seen this coming. Don’t flatter yourself. There’s a reason Corvus _values_ cyphers so much.”

The Freelancer raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t withdraw.

“So what you’re saying is that I’m too naïve.”

“Not at all. I’m saying that you’re so much better than this.” Owen’s voice is full of admiration, and for one short moment he sounds as excitable and idealistic as he did when they were two nobodies trying to make a living in Fort Tarsis. “You always saw the best in me. You were so convincing that for a while I did too. But let’s not kid ourselves. I bet there’s a whole bunch of colourful names going around the fort for what I am. What is it – traitor, coward, two-faced bastard?”

Owen’s thin smile is full of bitter acceptance, yet the Freelancer can’t resist taking a dig at him.

“Someone’s called you a little shit”, he teases and is rewarded with choked laughter.

“Fair enough.”

This time, they both smile – and, at least for a little while, it’s easy to ignore what lies beyond their companionable truce.

“You’re surprisingly okay with all of this”, the Freelancer says when the shadows of the afternoon have caught up with the path of the sun.

Owen just shrugs, but the tension has gone out of his limbs, even his eyes seem softer, the many scars on his face not quite as jarring.

“One of us has to be. You know things can’t go back to the way they were.”

He turns his head to look at him and the reality of his words stings far worse than any betrayal ever could.

“I know.” The Freelancer’s eyes never leave his as he reaches out with his hand. “And I miss you, too.”

Owen’s own gloved hand is dirty with soil and pieces of grass, but he clasps it tightly, intertwines their fingers until there isn’t any doubt left between them.

And Owen’s fingers curl into the touch.

“Bah, look at us”, he says, but his hand feels reassuring and steady. “Like two characters right out of Crimson Lancer.”

The Freelancer chuckles.

“Not you, too.”


End file.
